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distant echo

amid deft lines of steel and shadow
scrawled like a map of
human interactive behaviours,
against a sky so blue
you could eat off it,
the comforting shape of
a silhouette of primate,
a distant echo of ourselves

(if indeed we are looking upwards;
perhaps it’s a blue floor)

striving for order,
in the shapes
of Rorschach ink,
thoughts caught in a net
where we see ourselves –
or perhaps only that distant echo